Carla Kelly (9 page)

It was the bailiff; he stood there with her trunk on his shoulder, surprised at first and then smiling as she lay there and stared at him, too startled to move.

“Miss Hampton, such a dramatic pose,” he said finally.

She scrambled under the covers. “I . . . I thought you were Cora,” she stammered. “I mean, when did you retrieve my trunk? Is it later than I think? How’s the weather?” She had the good sense to stop and grin at him. “Am I babbling?”

He hesitated a moment, then came into the room and lowered the trunk carefully to the floor. “I woke up really early and made the trip to Quilling in no time. The road is clear now, and yes, you’re babbling.” He looked at her and winked. “Now you can probably locate a nightgown built on a less gargantuan scale.”

Her smile was sunny. No sense in being embarrassed in front of a man who had already bared his back to her. “Well, excuse my drama, please.” She crossed her legs under the covers and tucked the blanket around her. “It’s just that you are an answer to a prayer, Mr. Wiggins.”

He shook his head at her. “I never thought I would live to the day when I would be an answer to a maiden’s prayers!”

“Don’t give yourself too much credit, sir,” she said, then stopped. “See here, Mr. Wiggins. I know I am not to call you sir, on threat of being thrown into a muck heap, but Mr. Wiggins sounds endlessly formal, and you have, after all, proposed to me, and shown me your back . . .”

He burst out laughing before she could finish, and she blushed. “And I have called you Miss Hampton and Susan, and why don’t we both just call each other Susan and David? Is that what you are attempting to tell me? Considering the nature of our employment here, I think it would be entirely appropriate.”

“That’s one thing settled, then,” she said, folding her hands in her lap and wishing her hair were not tumbled around her shoulders, but neatly in place. “I fear I do not look too much like a lady at the moment,” she apologized. “But then, I did not expect you with my trunk. For such, si . . . David, I thank you.”

He took his cue and went to the door, turning back for a last smile. “Susan, you would look like a lady if you were simmering in a cannibal’s iron pot in deepest Africa!” He leaned against the door, closing it with his weight. “Lady Bushnell always looked like a lady, even on our worst campaigns.” He touched his chest. “I’m neither an authority nor a gentleman, but I suspect that being a lady comes from within.”

She nodded. “My mother was that way.”

He opened the door again. “You are, too, Susan,” he said softly as he left the room without looking back.

She watched the door, pleased with herself. Mama, you would be pleased to know that a bailiff in the Cotswolds thinks I am a lady. The whole idea was so amusing that she laughed out loud, then bounded out of bed and threw herself on her knees by the trunk. The book was there on top of her underthings, just where she had left it. She leaned against the trunk and leafed through the pages, smiling over favorite passages.

“Lady B, if you are not amused by
Emma
, then you are a hard case indeed,” she declared as she pulled off Mrs. Skerlong’s nightgown, and dug down to a nightgown of her own. Much better, she thought as she put it on. David Wiggins could have no objection to this, and may the Lord smite me if I think of him again when I should be concerned with weightier matters.

Although her own dresses were here now and hung in the dressing room, Susan wore Lady Elizabeth’s blue wool dress down to breakfast. I want her to see me in this, she thought as she opened the kitchen door and sniffed deep of bread baking. She needs to know that I am appreciative.

The bailiff was just taking his dishes to the sink when she sat down at the table and thanked Mrs. Skerlong for the porridge the housekeeper set in front of her. David passed her the cream as he came to the table again and sat down beside her, straddling the chair so he could face her.

“Could you do me a favor when you finish breakfast?” he asked as she poured on the cream and sprinkled in some sugar.

Susan nodded as she took a bite. He indicated a ledger in the middle of the table. “Lady Bushnell and I go over the accounts at the beginning of each month,” he explained. “Would you check my math? Sometimes it’s a bit creative.”

She took another bite, then glanced at him, unable to resist. “What? Not enough fingers and toes, David?”

Mrs. Skerlong laughed and quickly turned her attention to something bubbling on the range.

The bailiff grinned. “Now that you mention it, I am missing a couple of toes—that’s what happens when you try to stop a cannonball with your foot.” He leaned down as if to remove his boot. “Do you want to verify my more honorable scars?”

Susan blushed and applied herself to her porridge, after a warning look at Mrs. Skerlong’s back. “I have seen enough of your army trophies, sir! But yes, I will check your math.”

The porridge done, Susan sipped her tea and looked at the columns of figures under the January 1820 heading. She worked through the entries on a piece of scrap paper, mindful of the bailiff’s proximity as he leaned over the ledger, too. The hay fragrance was more prominent than the soap this morning. “See here,” she pointed out, “you forgot to borrow here on this hemp and cording entry, so all the rest of these entries are incorrect.” She ticked them off with the pencil.

“At least it was at the end of the month, so I don’t have to redo it all,” David temporized as he took a wad of rubber from his pocket and erased the faulty entries. “There.”

Susan smiled over the ledger as she inserted the correct figures. “Am I to gather that schools on the Welsh side of the border are less than effective, or that you were a truant?” she teased.

He shrugged. “I never saw the inside of one. Learned my ciphering in the army. And how to read and write.” He closed the ledger and stood up. “Thank you. It will be nice not to have Lady Bushnell twit me about my subtraction this once.”

“I can check your figures whenever you want,” Susan said, suddenly shy when he nodded in agreement and lightly touched her shoulder as he passed.

She waited in the kitchen all morning, polishing silverware for Mrs. Skerlong, but Lady Bushnell didn’t release the bailiff until luncheon. He took a cheese sandwich from Mrs. Skerlong and worked into his coat, muttering something about cows and the trouble with underbailiffs who think they are lovers. He looked back at Susan before he left the kitchen.

“I think she’s in as sweet a mood as ever,” he informed her. “And by the way, she asked me what I thought of you.”

Susan put down the polishing cloth and held her breath. “Well, sir?” she asked finally, when he just grinned at her.

“I told her you were something out of the ordinary and that her apostle spoons were entirely safe.” He laughed and caught the polishing cloth that she wadded up and threw at him, and tossed it back. “Charge, Susan.”

Chapter Eight

Courage, Susan, she told herself as she paused outside the sitting room door. She missed the security of the heavy tea tray, but it was too early after luncheon for tea. And while
Emma
had seemed such a brilliant idea in her bedroom, the book was small protection now, even hugged to her chest. As she raised her hand to knock, she thought about praying, then dismissed the idea. God had not heard from her lately; Susan chose not to add hypocrisy to her faults. She knocked.

“Come.”

Was there a longish pause between the knock and the acknowledgment? Was it too quick? Had she knocked firmly enough, or would Lady Bushnell think she was a forward piece? Susan took a deep breath. You are an idiot if you read malice in every word, she scolded herself. She opened the door and found herself immediately under Lady Bushnell’s scrutiny. She dropped what she hoped was a graceful curtsy and started on her journey across the room, which seemed miles deep. She thought briefly of Emily balancing books on her head in the hopes of achieving some dignity, and thanked God for good posture and gentle bearing.

Then she stood in front of her employer, much closer than the day before. If she had not been so terrified, she would have taken a long look. As it was, she could only see those marvelous, hooded eyes and a firm mouth. Everything about the woman seated before her spoke of a person who did not suffer fools gladly. And she already knows I am a Hampton, a family name synonymous with fools, Susan thought in a panic. For one wild moment she considered picking up her borrowed skirt and running from the room. I could be in Quilling in an hour, she thought as she managed what must have looked like a ghastly smile and even bunched the material of the skirt in her hand.

She didn’t run. As she quaked inwardly before her employer, she pressed the book against her stomach to stop its quivering and released her death grip on her skirt. She knew her appearance was nothing to disgust her employer; now if only her voice would not tremble, or her words would not come out in a breathless rush.

“Good afternoon, Lady Bushnell.” That was easy enough. Her voice did not sound strange to her ears.

Lady Bushnell nodded, and her eyes went from Susan’s face to the dress. “It fits?” she asked.

“Pretty well, my lady,” Susan replied. “It is a trifle long, but then, I am a trifle short.”

It was the smallest of jokes. It may have been Susan’s imagination, but Lady Bushnell appeared to smile slightly in return. It came and went so quickly that Susan decided it must have been a trick of the light.

“You are more deep-breasted than my daughter,” Lady Bushnell commented, “so you may wish to set the buttons over to give yourself more room. Certainly you may hem the dress, if you think you will be around for at least the length of a probation.”

“I shall, my lady,” Susan replied, gratified.

Exhausted, the subject wilted. Silence settled around the room like dust motes in a shaft of sunlight. Lady Bushnell looked out the window for a lengthy time, sighed, and then turned to face Susan again. She seemed chagrined that Susan was still there.

“What is it that you wish of me, Miss Hampton?” she asked, and there was resignation in her tones. “What do you propose to do?”

“Why, earn my salary, ma’am,” Susan said, unable to keep all the surprise from her voice.

There was another brief flicker of amusement in Lady Bushnell’s eyes. Green eyes, Susan observed, and such a wonderful, unfaded green.

“Then you will be the first one.” Lady B said, with just a touch of asperity.

“I have already told Cora that I am to be the last one, Lady Bushnell,” Susan said with a firmness she did not feel.

Lady Bushnell directed her gaze out the window again. Susan’s heart sank, and she mentally kicked herself. Why can I not just say “Yes, my lady” or “No, my lady” and leave the windy treatises to others? She waited to be dismissed again.

“How do you propose to do this?” came the question. Lady Bushnell continued to regard the view beyond the window. “If you plan to cheer me up, it’s already been tried. If it is to be a needlework project, don’t bother. I have a drawer full of unfinished doilies and china paintings. If you wish to chat, I doubt we have much in common.”

“Mr. Wiggins allows that we do,” Susan said suddenly, then hesitated. “Although I cannot see it, either,” she concluded in a rush when Lady Bushnell turned quickly to look at her.

“I have never questioned my bailiff’s skills of observation,” Lady Bushnell commented, “but I do not think he is overacquainted with the gentry. We share this room and we are women, but I do not think our similarities extend much beyond that. What do you propose to do with me?” she asked, her voice heavy with irony.

“I intend to read to you.”

“Read to me?” the widow repeated, and her voice rose for the first time. “Read to me like a bedridden pensioner whose wits are too twaddled for anything else?”

Susan winced but did not falter. “No! I do not see it that way.” Without an invitation, she sat in the chair opposite the dowager. “David . . . Mr. Wiggins asked me what I used to like to have done to me, and the second thing was to have someone read to me. It’s a pleasure.”

Again there was that twitch of the lip and slight flicker of the eye that lasted no more than a millisecond. “Do enlighten me what the first thing was on your list.” she asked, but it sounded more like a command.

“Mama brushed my hair. I liked the way it felt,” she said simply. Lady Bushnell was not someone to bamboozle with an elaborate answer. “I did not think you wanted me to brush your hair.”

“No. I’m quite capable of that; always have been. You do not think I have the wits left to read to myself?” she asked, indicating the open book on her lap.

“You misunderstand me, my lady,” Susan said, her voice earnest now. “I always thought it the height of comfort to have someone read to me. I could close my eyes and just let the words wander through my mind. I . . .” She paused. I am making a fool of myself, she thought miserably. Please, Lady Bushnell.

“If you must, you must,” the woman said finally. “I suppose if I do not allow you to read to me, then I will be forced into needlework or some other project for my own good.”

Susan smiled. “Never that! I’m an indifferent needlewoman myself, so you need not fear that I will trap you in a daisy chain or force a French knot on you.”

Lady Bushnell put her hand to her mouth and coughed, or at least it sounded like a cough to Susan. “What a relief to know that I am safe from the dreaded feather stitch. Now, set my mind at rest and assure me that I will not be forced to tat against my will.”

“Never!” Susan replied, unable to keep the laughter from her voice. “And I will never inflict crewel punishment.”

Lady Bushnell coughed again. Susan wondered if she should suggest a seat farther from the window, then decided that her courage did not extend that far. The widow closed the book in her lap, not even marking the page, and set it aside. Perhaps David is right, Susan thought. Perhaps she would like to read, but cannot anymore. You are a proud old thing, Lady Bushnell, and I hope I am just like you when I reach sixty-five. I doubt I will have any more family around me than you do, she considered. She took heart and opened the book.

“I would like to read
Emma
, my lady,” she said. “It’s rather modern, but it makes me laugh.” She leaned forward. “Emma is not exactly a pattern card of perfection, such as one finds in some novels, my lady.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Lady Bushnell cut in. “I never read novels.”

“Oh, I do!” Susan said, choosing not to accept the rebuff. “Sometimes nothing is better than a romance where events resolve themselves to everyone’s satisfaction.” She noticed the set look return to the widow’s eyes. “I know it seldom happens in real life, but there is nothing wrong with the occasional happy ending,” Susan added gently.

“I wouldn’t know,” the widow repeated, but her voice was softer this time.

There was nothing in Lady Bushnell’s demeanor that encouraged it, but Susan leaned forward impulsively and just touched the woman’s knee. She regretted the gesture almost the moment she made it, but Lady Bushnell did not draw away. Instead, she sighed and folded her hands in her lap. “Well, then, if you must read, let us get on with it,” she said, as though humoring a puppy leaping about and growling at the hem of her dress.

This is one fool you are forced to suffer, Lady Bushnell, Susan thought, at least until I have failed whatever probation you permit me. And I fear it will not be long. She turned to the first chapter and cleared her throat. “‘Volume One, Chapter One. Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence, and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to vex or distress her.’”

***

The afternoon sun was changing the look of the sitting room when Cora Skerlong came in with a tea tray. Susan looked up from the book with a quick glance at Lady Bushnell, one of a series of darting glances she had made all afternoon. Early in the first chapter, Lady Bushnell had closed her eyes, which made Susan open her own eyes wider and wonder if she was listening at all or merely suffering her presence until some interruption, like a tea tray, could relieve her.

Susan marked her place and put aside the book. I wonder if I should have chosen something more serious, like
The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
, or Fox’s
Book of Martyrs
, she thought, then shook her head slightly. Then
I
would have trouble staying awake. She smiled at the thought of falling asleep until the book tumbled from her hands and she pitched forward to lie snoring in Lady Bushell’s lap. No, she decided, no
Book of Martyrs
for me. She looked at Lady Bushnell, who was indicating that Cora set down the heavy tray. I think there have been too many martyrs for Lady Bushnell’s peace of mind as it is.

Cora left the room, pausing just out of Lady Bushnell’s vision to blow a quick kiss to Susan, her eyes merry. Susan found herself wishing for escape, too, and a return to the kitchen and the comfort of soup, or stew, or whatever it was she had been smelling this past hour and more. She picked up a cup and saucer and poured tea for Lady Bushnell.

“Thank you.”

That was all. There was no offer that Susan take up the other cup and pour for herself, too, so she did not, even though she was as dry as a hay sprig from reading.

Cora had left the day’s mail on the tray. As soon as Lady Bushnell had taken several sips, Susan handed the letters and a small package to her.

“There is a letter opener on my desk.”

Susan rose, grateful to move again, and went to the desk, which was covered with letters, brittle and yellow, the ink faded. The dates were two decades gone now. She moved the letters aside, but not before her eyes caught several of the salutations. “Beloved Lydia.” “My darling wife.” “Sweetheart.” Susan sighed, marveling how it must feel to receive letters addressed like that. She returned to her seat by the window and took the letters Lady Bushnell extended to her, slitting them open. The widow took them back and indicated with her head the package on the tray.

“That is for Mr. Wiggins. See that he gets it.”

“Very well, my lady.” Susan picked up the items. Should I offer to read her correspondence to her? she questioned herself. Can she manage? Do I dare attempt to remove such autonomy from her? A moment’s reflection told her that she did not dare. She picked up her book. “Will you be needing . . .”

“No,” the widow interrupted. There was no disguising her eagerness to see Susan gone. “That will be quite all.”

Susan hesitated at the door. “I could return after din . . .”

“No need.”

She was absurdly close to tears, but she forced them back and squared her shoulders. “I will return tomorrow for chapter seven,” she said, hoping she sounded confident.

“You will not,” Lady Bushnell contradicted as she reached for a macaroon. She took a good look at Susan, one that measured her up and down. “I believe we were on chapter six, Miss Hampton, and not seven. Tomorrow, then. Don’t forget Mr. Wiggins’s package.”

Susan paused outside the sitting room door and leaned against it. I have survived one afternoon, she told herself. I refuse to allow myself any wild flights of fancy, such as are common to Hamptons, but I will permit myself the luxury of hope. She looked down at the book she clutched so tightly. “Thank you, Jane Austen,” she whispered, and never meant anything more.

She went down the hall to the kitchen, where she surprised Mrs. Skerlong, dozing in her chair. The cat leaped off the housekeeper’s lap, twined itself around Susan’s ankles, then returned to the housekeeper, satisfied with ownership in the newest human. Another leap, this one more dignified, landed him back in Mrs. Skerlong’s lap.

Susan set the book and package on the table. “Is Mr. Wiggins about?” she asked. “There is this package for him.”

“He has gone to choir practice,” the housekeeper replied. “Would you mind stirring that pot on the stove?”

“With pleasure, provided I can lick the spoon. Choir practice?”

Mrs. Skerlong settled herself more comfortably in the chair. “You don’t think any self-respecting curate would permit a Welsh bass to live unmolested within parish boundaries, do you?”

Susan laughed as she stirred the stew. “I wasn’t aware of Mr. Wiggins’s considerable talents before.”

“Then you’ll be the first lady’s companion who isn’t!” Mrs. Skerlong replied, amusement evident in her voice.

“Really, Mrs. Skerlong!” Susan protested as she felt herself blushing.

“Yes, really!” The housekeeper smiled and turned her attention to the cat, who was kneading her stomach. “They’ve all looked him over, but I don’t know that it did any of them much good. Of course, I suppose your being of the gentry yourself will make you less liable.”

“Of course,” Susan agreed as she poured herself some tea and sat down to resume polishing silverware from her morning task, She looked around for Mrs. Skerlong’s daughter. “Did Cora go to choir practice, too?”